


Of Cheap Suits and Gold

by corvinomorte



Series: A Wolf's Tale [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Gen, Mythology References, Portuguese, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvinomorte/pseuds/corvinomorte
Summary: You know, this is the first in a series of short stories i've wanted to write, but I don't know if I'll ever publish them. I guess I'd like to take this as a chance to just write something fun without the pressure of a class deadline or a work contract. Welcome to my little wonderful world of monsters and men. If you would like to see more, leave a kudos or a comment about what sort of myth's you'd like to see appear! Enjoy!
Series: A Wolf's Tale [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892992
Kudos: 1





	Of Cheap Suits and Gold

Miguel Pozlinski, captain of the Massachusetts’s Department of Supernatural Affair’s Client negotiation and elimination team, decided to leave his gun under the front seat when he got out in the alley beside the old jeweler’s shop. Miguel didn’t enjoy using guns; he thought they felt a little too impersonal, and honestly, going on a job while fully loaded never sent the right message. After all, his boss did say that the department needed to maintain a level of social appeal after some dickhead from accounting accidentally pulled out a stake while arguing with a Strigoi at a coffee shop. Not the best move, so Miguel had to make sure at least he would appear as calm and amicable as possible.

“So, usual positions, Captain?” Charlie asked. 

Miguel turned his head and began tying his loose blond hair into a tight knot as he looked over his shoulder. His four subordinates, his “bitches” as he liked to call them, though the official designation for the team was “hunt,” climbed out of the car in their off-white trench coats and bore their tools of the trade. Charlie was the fastest—a lithe man of roughly thirty or so with branch-long arms—so he preferred handcuffs and close quarters maneuvers to subdue clients if they ran. Should someone get past Charlie, Missy and Lilly—two sisters from Cleveland or somewhere like that—had incredible tracking skills but used shotguns when things didn’t go their way. And if the client had made it too far for even them, Miles, the loudmouth and heaviest drinker Miguel had ever seen, would use his grandfather’s Mosin Nagent to finish the job. Altogether, the four lycan made a pretty efficient kill-team, despite Miguel’s best wishes.

“Yeah. I don’t expect this to go south, but you never know.”

“What exactly is a mouros?” Miles asked. “Sounds like some kind of medical condition.” He let out a deep chuckle, and Miguel cringed at the scent of vodka on his breath.

Even though they stood a dozen feet apart, Miguel could feel the sharp tang stick to his skin. He rubbed his nose gently a few times, sniffing his own skin to focus before addressing his team. “A mouros,” he said, putting emphasis on the slurring S sound—they should at least pronounce the name right— “belongs to the same family as svartálfar.”

“Wait,” Miles started. “Wait, wait, wait. We’re hunting a dwarf? Ha—do you think he could hook me up with Snow White?”

“Miles, that’s rude,” Missy said. “How would you like it if someone asked to put a collar on you and walk you around the park?”

“I’d ask them to refund my gym membership and let them know my safe word is fetch.”

Thinking about it, Miguel could go for a vodka tonic if only it would make this banter a bit more bearable. He had arrived at the shop ten minutes before they opened to scope the scene, but he knew his team would start bickering like energetic pups. And Miguel let them chase each other’s tails for a few minutes while he placed an order for delivery on his phone—two lumberjack specials from Alice’s diner. The rail-thin line cook, Ada, always knew to cook the bacon how Miguel liked it—a little fatty and underdone—and client meetings normally went better when he offered them food. 

“Look, Miles,” Miguel started, “while that may be a sentence I will need to cauterize from my mind, Miss has a point. Last thing we need is to underestimate our client. Boss said that a mouros may be a cousin to folklore dwarves, but they’re more like a mountain with a Cross-fit membership.”

Miles let out a whistle and swung his rifle on his back. Charlie started rolling his shoulders and neck to limber up. The sisters just stood in parade dress—which Miguel always found cute, if not redundant. Actual soldiers had a cause—honor. 

“So, Miles, get to the roof, don’t fire or pursue unless Mr. Xoel runs more than three blocks away. Charlie, get the back door. Ladies, aim for the legs. The department doesn’t want any more bodies than necessary. And under no circumstances do I want you shifting this early in the morning. You’ll upset people’s breakfast.”  
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison before moving to their different positions.

Miguel took a deep breath and looked at the empty alley. He ran his hand over the blond stubble on his chin and steeled himself. Just another day—another job. As little blood as possible. Pleasant, polite, humble. Act only in self-defense. And with each step towards the front door of Mr. Xoel’s store, Miguel muttered each phrase as a reminder that, in all things now, he must act with mercy.

The bell above the door rang, and Mr. Xoel, an older gentleman of about six feet tall—short white wispy moustache and goatee—raised a hand from behind the front desk. “I will be with you in one moment, sir. You’ve caught me right as I was finishing tallying the register.”

“Please, take your time,” Miguel said. While Mr. Xoel attended to his register, counting the bills before putting them back into their slots, Miguel took a brief survey of the room. County records said the shop had always belonged to Mr. Xoel since the 1920’s, when he purchased it with three solid gold coins he had apparently earned from Eric the Red during his immigration to America in the first millennium. While not uncommon during those days, the zoning committee made a note that Mr. Xoel should be shown incredible service and deference. And Miguel could tell the shop probably hadn’t changed much outside of minor repairs and cosmetic updates. 

In the twenty feet between the front door and the front counter, Miguel noticed two long glass cases filled with different jewelry. The left case held necklaces embedded with rubies, sapphires, and even the occasional topaz. The right had an assortment of earrings and broaches with vibrant designs—hummingbirds in flight, monkeys eating bananas, and even tiny little yellow frogs. Besides that, the store didn’t have much else besides photos along the walls of happy customers, and the distinct taste of copper in the air—not blood, no. Something chemical, maybe polish or the like.

“Now, then, apologies. How may I help you? Are you looking for something in particular, or are you here for a custom order?”

Miguel raised a brow and walked to the front counter. Completely glass as well, and meticulously cared for—this was the only case that had bulletproof glass in it as far as Miguel could tell. The front display case had a collection of seven rings on velvet pillows. “These are beautiful,” he said, lost in their shine.

“Ah, you have a good eye,” Mr. Xoel said. “These are relics from my mother country, pure gold and silver from the mountains of Northern Portugal—the masterworks of each jewel smith in my family.”

“I’m surprised there aren’t more.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I understand it, most mouros are jewel-smiths. So, why then do I count only seven rings here? Do you only have seven people in your family?” Miguel looked into Mr. Xoel’s eyes.

The older man straightened his back and crossed his arms over his chest. He began watching Miguel closer now, taking note of his tied up hair, his wrinkled grey houndstooth suit, and the general air of bureaucracy about him. Mr. Xoel’s lips pressed into an almost invisible line before he spoke again. “Common misconception. Only the first born of the generation is trained in the family craft.” Mr. Xoel tapped his finger over where the second pillow rested in the case. “I made this one.” 

Miguel looked at the ring—a brightly polished silver band with impeccable etchings of what looked like a dragon, that etching then inlaid with gold. “Impressive work. And an impressive lineage.” Miguel turned his eyes to look at the five other rings in the case. “Big family man?”

“What business do you have here? And who are you that you know I am mouros. I don’t advertise that.”

Miguel let out a small laugh. “No, you don’t put it on your windows or in the newspapers, but anyone with half a mind would realize that a business in jewel making and selling, run by the same man for multiple generations despite not looking older than sixty, is not entirely human either.” A silence fell between the two men, and Miguel saw faint specks of red begin to bloom on Mr. Xoel’s cheek. “But you are right, I apologize for my own rudeness of not introducing myself right away. My name is Miguel Pozlinski. I work for the Massachusetts department of Supernatural Affairs, identification number F1-D0-4W-O0.” Slowly, Miguel pulled out his billfold from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and opened it to show the ivory and onyx cross badge.

Mr. Xoel took two steps back. Miguel rubbed the back of his neck, tapping a small button tucked under his collar twice—a signal for the team to prepare for a runner. “What does a Spect want from me?”

Why did they always have to call him a Spect? The name didn’t even make sense since it came from “specter” and the department hired everyone from humans to Rakshasa. Miguel thought it came from some local news video posted online of a man in Florida saying the department haunted and harassed him like a poltergeist—like an unwanted specter.

Miguel let out a heavy sigh and leaned both elbows on the front counter. “I have business with you on behalf of the state in terms of some unpaid fees and registrations. If you could just—”

“No. Leave now before I call the police.”

Great. The last thing Miguel needed was a pair of blue-backs coming and making things needlessly violent and even more complicated. “Please, if you just hear me out I can—”

“No,” Mr. Xoel said louder, throwing one arm towards the door—finger pointed. “Now.”

As little blood as possible. Pleasant, polite, humble. As little blood as possible. Pleasant, polite, and humble. “I understand your concern, but if you do not hear me out there could be ramifications for both you and your family.”

Silence fell, and Miguel could hear Charlie’s voice—his longest paired hunt member—speak gently in the hidden earpiece he wore. “Uh-oh.”

Miguel did his best to stop Mr. Xoel from driving a small letter opener into his skull. According to the file Miguel received earlier that morning, Mr. Xoel stood at exactly six feet three inches tall, weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, and was seventeen hundred years old. What the file didn’t mention was that this bulky grandfather had the athletic ability of a teen Olympian. When the old man had taken two steps back, grabbed the letter opener, and then fully leapt over the counter and knocked Miguel to the floor—little to say he felt quite impressed and surprised.

And he went for the throat—a single puncture and Miguel would have begun hemorrhaging. But Miguel didn’t want to go back to the fire, the chains white-hot on his legs holding him down as his body became this—thing again. So, he fell back with the giant and heaved with his legs, knocking Mr. Xoel to the side. Miguel scrambled back to his feet and faced Mr. Xoel, who had taken a wide stance—lowering his body down and holding his hands out. 

“Please, Mr. Xoel, why don’t we just talk a bit more,” Miguel said. He brushed a few strands of hair from his face before positioning his arms to fight—arms up, fists angled inwards, elbows out, just as his commander had taught him.

“We did talk. You threatened my family if I didn’t do what you said.” Mr. Xoel took one long step forward and reached out for Miguel’s arm.

A hundred and fifty pounds lighter and a foot shorter, Miguel easily feinted away, trying to gain more of a distance. “So, you try to kill me?”

“No Spect, no extortion.”

Miguel had to appreciate the linearity of Mr. Xoel’s logic. It had a sort of grim sense to it, but Miguel had other appointments today and the last thing he wanted was any more blood on his hands. He quickly stepped into the reach of the giant and took two quick pot-shots at Mr. Xoel’s ribs. The hits connected, but Miguel took in a sharp and pained breath. Beneath the man’s sweater, stained with iron shavings, Mr. Xoel’s body felt hard as stone—harder even. 

Mr. Xoel took the opportunity while Miguel’s head swam with a bright white pain and tried for another grab. “Just—stop—moving,” Mr. Xoel said, punctuating each word with a heavy breath and grab.

Both men danced around the display cases, Miguel always keeping a foot or so away when he didn’t try for another unsuccessful swing. And whenever they got too near the glass, Miguel would do his best to turn Mr. Xoel towards another direction. While he may have the obligation to kill in defense of the populace, himself, and his team, Miguel didn’t want to be hit with another liability and destruction of property claim.

“Please, can we please be civil?” Miguel asked, trying so desperately one last time.

“Do you need me to come in, boss?” Charlie said in Miguel’s earpiece again.

Miguel didn’t have time to answer, and he didn’t want Mr. Xoel to feel like he was surrounded. Miguel knew a cornered animal would always bite—and you put down an animal that bites. So, he leapt onto Mr. Xoel’s back and placed the mouros in a chokehold.

The giant only tried to beat Miguel off, heavy slaps echoing through the empty store. But after a minute of percussive whapping, Mr. Xoel’s face turned a faint pink, then red, and finally a deep, bloated crimson before he stumbled to his knees and tapped Miguel’s arm.

Taking a second to breathe and wipe the sweat from his brow, Miguel released Mr. Xoel and threw both fists up in exasperated victory. Once Miguel took ample time to cherish the moment, as he had prevented adding another tally to his penance board, he picked up Mr. Xoel from behind. Both men, panting and bruised and scraped, then looked up to see a young man in a tattered windbreaker standing in the doorway, phone out, watching.

“How long have you been there?” Miguel asked.

The man, whom Miguel saw was actually his delivery man, looked back to his phone before addressing Miguel. “Long enough to see a Spect beat up an old man and nearly kill him.”

If only Miguel had come back to the world before that bastard Bell had made phones—they caused nothing but issues and publicity crises. Not even mentioning the power of screenshots. “Look, I know this looks bad, but why don’t you just take this exceptional tip, delete the video, and I’ll give you a thumbs up on the app?” Miguel asked. He took a few steps slowly, as non-threateningly as possible, towards the delivery man.

“Ha—so now you’re trying to bribe me? My followers are going to eat this up.”

One day. Miguel just wanted please, for the love of God who abandoned him, for one day where someone didn’t make this miserable job any harder. He took a deep breath in, wanting to start his mantras again, but something caught his nose—a smell like uncooked ham. Sweet, gamy. Human. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

“Huh?” the delivery man asked.

Miguel heard Mr. Xoel pull himself up to the front counter. He felt a burning along his legs, a sharp tingling sensation that raced from his toes along his spine to the top of his head. Miguel focused, remembered the smell of brimstone and the sound of cruel laughter as his body was wrapped in hellfire and iron chains for a century. Every day they burned him, bled him until his body formed a layer of scabs and charred flesh. He could control it now, he knew it, he just couldn’t get—

“Oh, what the fuck? I’m calling the cops,” the man shouted, turning towards the door.

That's it. Anger. Quick and hot made the change even faster. Miguel felt the individual sharp pains as the nails and bones in his arms broke, pushed out and shifted—muscles ripping and reforming. It only took three heartbeats, but his arm had grown three times in size, coated with a thick black fur and ended in a set of hooked claws that snatched out and pierced through the delivery man’s phone.

Miguel’s voice came out a rumbling growl, and he spoke slowly through his now three-inch incisors—so he could be fully understood. “Not without my food.” With his human arm, Miguel took the bag from the man—who trembled and began to urinate himself. He would probably go to the cops. The mundane always did whenever Miguel had to show his true face, but he’d gotten used to the fear and hate a long time ago. With his claw, Miguel pulled the delivery man’s phone back and dropped it to the floor. “You can leave now.”  
The man didn’t need further encouragement and broke into a sprint along the street. 

Miguel took a deep breath and turned to face Mr. Xoel when he saw his eyes—shining amber—in the storefront’s reflection. He pressed his human hand against his ear and said, “Ladies, notify the main office to call the local police department and tell them that we are on scene.”

“Yes, sir,” Missy replied.

Miguel let his body cool, taking a deep breath with each steep and letting his arm return to its mundane state. He placed the bag of food onto the counter and took out the individual containers. “Mr. Xoel, may I make you a plate?”

The mouros nodded slowly and pulled a stool up behind the counter, keeping his eyes fixed on Miguel. “I didn’t know the Spec—the department hired non-humans.”

“Most don’t. I’m sorry if that disturbed you, I don’t like…displaying that part of me.”

Mr. Xoel nodded and took a hearty bite of pancake. “So, what are you?”

Miguel sighed, rubbing his now bare arm. He’d need another suit. He hated buying his suits secondhand. He wanted to look presentable when he went to work, but his choices were to either look like a bum at jobs and wear gym clothes or invest in cheap suits that always ripped when he shifted. “I’m—human…” he said, not knowing if it was a lie. “Human enough. I’m just also Pricolici.”

“Prico—I don’t know that word.”

Miguel rubbed his legs as he took a few bites of eggs to settle his stomach. “Think about it like a werewolf, but not genetic or anything like that.”

“A curse?”

Miguel nodded his head back and forth. “Of sorts. No one scratched or bit me—movies get that by-and-large wrong. I—” Miguel heard both his human resources liaison and his therapist chiming in his head to practice his “honesty” and “vulnerability” with others. He looked at Mr. Xoel, a true fighter who had earned a bit of respect in his eyes, and figured a warrior deserved his honesty. “I died serving under Vlad III of Wallachia at the battle of Târgoviște in 1462. However, my service under the Impaler…a decade of slaughter, earned me a ticket down to Hell.”

Mr. Xoel made the sign of the cross over his chest. Miguel always found the syncretism of Christianity and most non-humans fascinating. Had God made him a scholar, Miguel thought he’d have liked to spend his life studying the phenomena.

“Though I only served in the infantry, I had…ambitions to impress my commander. And my actions then, in the eyes of God and even Lucifer himself, meant I would become a beast fueled by blood and slaughter. I won’t die unless someone kills me, and I will continually resurrect unless I atone for all the death I have caused.”

Mr. Xoel nodded and just kept eating his pancakes. Miguel didn’t necessarily feel better, although he appreciated that Mr. Xoel didn’t immediately try running. “How many?” he asked.

Miguel spoke automatically. He crunched the numbers at the end of every day. “By my count? I still have about four hundred and seventy lives left.” 

A silence fell between the men again, and they just continued their meals until their plates sat empty and syrup-soaked on the glass counter top.

“You know,” Mr. Xoel began, “I always thought a werewolf would be… I don’t know…taller—more handsome and mysterious. Not—” he waved gently with his hand at the shredded suit, dark circles under Miguel’s eyes, and the fact that even when sitting down, Mr. Xoel had to lean his head to make eye contact.

Had Miguel not partially shifted, knew he would have to file a report about why the cops would come alongside a destruction of property reimbursement form, and forced himself to discuss his trauma, he might have taken offense. Instead, he just dragged one finger through the cold and thick syrup, drawing a smiley face. “And I would have thought a cousin to the svartálfar would whistle as he worked and be an alcoholic.”

“Those are cruel and unfair stereotypes,” Mr. Xoel said, pointing a meaty finger aggressively at Miguel.

“I’m just saying, the records could use some updating. When I read that the mouros were a, and I quote, ‘species fond of metal and goldsmithing originating from subterranean areas in Portugal,’ I couldn’t help but wonder if Disney got it right.”

“Well? What do you think now that you’ve met a true mouros?” Mr. Xoel puffed out his chest a bit and plucked one end of his moustache.

“You certainly put Grumpy to shame.”

The two men stared each other down before bursting into a short fit of laughter—exhaustion and awkwardness fueling their chuckles.

“You’re not too bad,” Mr. Xoel said.

That hurt more than the letter opener would have. And in remedy, Miguel pulled out a small envelope from the inside of his suit jacket and placed it on to table. “Since I have your admiration, and you understand who you are speaking to, might we get down to the original business?”

Mr. Xoel looked at the letter opener on the floor of the store behind Miguel, and then at the man’s ragged, half-naked state. He put both hands up. “I have no choice, right? Get to it.”

Miguel, relieved, opened up the envelope and handed a trio of papers to Mr. Xoel. “According to our records, Mr. Xoel, you haven’t completed either your registration or your registration payments to the Department in sixty three years.”

“Easy solution. I don’t owe because I never registered. Why should I? I have lived in this region since before the first Europeans colonized it.”

“Trust me, I understand. Supernatural Squatter’s rights becomes a frequent argument in both the state house and the senate. But, until that gets resolved, all Supernatural entities are required to register within their respective state. But that envelope has a registration form and two other documents, could you read those for me?”

The mouros agreed set aside the registration form. He then looked over the first document, a deeply aged and worn piece of parchment about the size of Miguel’s forearm and bearing barely legible black ink. Mr. Xoel then looked over the second paper, a standard 8.5x11 form. “I know these, why?”

“Can you verify that you, Mr. Luiz Xoel signed this first document?”

“But wh—”

“I need verbal confirmation before we continue. And if you’d rather not we can try fighting again if you think you can beat me this time.”

Mr. Xoel paused before clearing his throat. “Yes, I signed this first document.”

“Wonderful. Now, this document is a treatise of non-aggression between your clan and the incorporated settlement of Freetown in 1654. Under Article three, section fifteen, subparagraph two of the American Board of Human Affair’s Cohabitation act of 1946, this document would classify you and your family as a sovereign people with economic rights to trade within the confines of what we once called the Mass Bay colony, and, thanks to good old Washington, the state of Massachusetts.”

“Okay,” Mr. Xoel said. “I still don’t understand why I would need to—”

Miguel held up his finger and pointed at the second sheet. “That is a record that you registered to vote in the 1948 presidential election.”

Mr. Xoel went quiet, putting the argument together in his head. “Truman had good economic policies,” he said—mumbling the words.

“Not my place to agree or disagree. Because Document A classifies you as a member of a sovereign people, you shouldn’t have voted for good old Harry. Since you did, this would mean you, a foreign power, interfered in a US election and technically—technically—committed voter fraud.”

“And…what is the punishment if I still choose not to register?”

“Traditionally? Five years in prison with parole after two. But given your…nature, it would most likely be scaled. One hundred with parole after fifty. If you don’t submit yourself to trial, or flee me and the state, you’d face immediate exile from the United States until either you or the nation ceases to exist—whichever comes first.”

Mr. Xoel just looked between the papers again, and then let his eyes drift along the photos hung on the walls—nearly a century of family and history in this one unforgiving land.  
A sour feeling welled up in Miguel’s stomach. Whatever he preferred to call his monstrosity, he hated becoming people’s bogeyman—that lingering threat of paperwork and claws that could destroy someone’s hard-earned life. He saw no honor in shaming or scaring an adversary into compliance. But he had his protocol—if he wanted to survive long enough to die forever, he needed to obey and follow his protocols. 

“My fifth-great granddaughter is due in April,” Mr. Xoel finally said. “A girl. They plan on calling her Maria, after my daughter.

Another twist in Miguel’s core. He felt for the old man, and at the end of the day, that’s what Mr. Xoel was—a man. A father, someone who has spent his life trying to perfect his art and preserve his family. And Miguel? Miguel lived alone. He had no family, no one to dedicate his life and service to. He could only hope not to kill and help on an individual-by-individual basis. And he didn’t even know if that would even work. But he needed to cling onto something.

“If you register with the state, and yes—federal—departments of Supernatural affairs you can meet your fifth-great granddaughter. This would put you on a track to citizenship, probably within thirty years, and you would gain special private rights exclusive to your kind. However, there are issues of fees as well.”

Both men only looked at their hands. Meeting eye’s meant being a little too honest to Miguel. He didn’t want Mr. Xoel to see the regret, the pain and sadness over this circumstance. But what he didn’t want Mr. Xoel to see his resolve—that at the end of the day, Miguel would do his job.

Mr. Xoel stood up, and Miguel readied himself for another fight before the man walked around the front counter and flipped the sign to CLOSED. 

“Do you plan to try and kill me?” Miguel asked, still looking at his hands.

“I wish I could. It would make this so much easier. But you’d just come back. And I don’t know the punishment for killing a Department agent.”

Miguel let out a soft scoff. “They’d send out a squad to eliminate you. No trial. Only cuffs and lead as you would match the qualifications for ‘major threat to public safety’—especially if you killed me.”

“Are you that important?”

“No, I’ve simply killed far more people than you.”

Mr. Xoel nodded and pulled a small rag from his pocket, wiping the bits of egg and pancake from the counter. He moved with slow, deliberate movements, each swipe of the cloth another thought forming in his mind it seemed. Miguel just breathed slowly, taking in the scents of iron and polish and copper—hot and tangy on his tongue like a bloody lip.

“How much is the fee?”

Miguel pulled out his phone, and thankfully, reverently, did the calculations. “Eighty per year, times sixty three years, plus general liability tax for your business and others—times twenty five…about thirty thousand dollars. And then about six hundred dollars every year after this point. If it helps, you do get tax breaks.”

“I could run,” Mr. Xoel said, looking down at Miguel.

Miguel looked right back up at him and nodded. “You could.” They met eyes, and Miguel let Mr. Xoel in, for he had earned a soldier’s respect. Mr. Xoel had eyes that shone a little too blue, as though he had made his eyes out of sapphire and jet. 

The mouros picked up the rag and walked to the back door. He opened it and shut it quietly. Miguel closed his eyes, praying that he would not hear the slamming of the outside door, the shouting and howls as chase began, the rapport of shotguns and a too-old rifle.

“Do you have a suitcase?” Mr. Xoel asked from behind the door.

Miguel’s body loosened, and he shivered as a chill dripped from his shoulders to the base of his back. “No, I don’t. Why?”

“What sort of state-man doesn’t have a suitcase.”

“I tend to avoid walking in with one. I think it makes people think I’m a lawyer.” 

“If only,” Mr. Xoel said, coming from the back of the store with a heaving bag—actually, ten Market Basket bags tucked into one another and filled with a small pile of glittering and clanking objects. Mr. Xoel carefully put the bag on the counter, and Miguel discovered he had filled it to the brim with what looked like precious gems and golden coins.

Miguel took a long moment to observe Mr. Xoel—his goatee and burnished skin, the short crop of his salt-and pepper hair, the worn callouses on his hand. Honestly, jokes aside, Miguel began to wonder if Mr. Xoel hadn’t actually worked as a miner in his younger days, before the world grew loud and crowded. Before men like Miguel came along to make it a bloody and binding affair. Pushing past his thoughts, Miguel cleared his throat and pushed the bag away. “I can’t take this.”

“What? After all this?” Mr. Xoel’s voice pitched up in frustration.

Miguel just sat with his hands in his lap, letting the air settle and trying not to set Mr. Xoel off again. “As much as I appreciate your cooperation, I can’t take your money.”  
“Hmph. Honest, self-deprecating, and reeking of decency. Won’t you get in trouble with your bosses?”

Miguel raised one brow. He didn’t know why he’d get in trouble. Did Mr. Xoel know something he didn’t? “Mr. Xoel, I only came here to get you to register.”  
“And then you said I had the fees. Thirty thousand.”

“Yes,” Miguel said, slowly as he tried figuring out where the miscommunication lay.

“But you won’t take the money?”

“Huh? Oh, I see. Sorry, I—no, I don’t handle the payments for fees.”

“Oh,” Mr. Xoel said, his face losing its heat and color. “Who does then?”

“Registration of Supernatural Entities. They’re a subdivision of the department. Here.” Miguel pulled out a small business card from his billfold. “Call them up after lunch and ask for Jocelyn Woll, she’s a friend and my contact for cases.”

“Ah, well, thank you Mr…”

“Pozlinski. But most people just call me Miguel or Mr. P.” Miguel heard a brief bit of laughter from his earpiece and knew that, when this was over, his hunt might enjoy some extra hand-to-hand drills during lunch today. 

“Well, Miguel, if you don’t handle the payments, what do you handle?”

Miguel paused as he stood, fixing his lapel as best he could give his circumstances. “In truth, I make sure people sign their paperwork. If they don’t, I ensure that they cause no problems for the state—and that adds to my debt. Just make sure you register before next week… before they send a final notice.” Miguel tucked his bare arm behind his back and looked at Mr. Xoel who—fully understanding—had taken a step back. “So, thank you for being so patient with me and all this hassle. Like most civil servants…I hate my job.”

Miguel began walking out of the store, rubbing the back of his neck and triggering the button three times—job complete.

“Four hundred and sixty-nine,” Mr. Xoel said as Miguel reached for the door handle.

Miguel felt a burning behind his eyes and didn’t look back at the man—Mr. Xoel. He just nodded to his own reflection and walked outside.

Miguel rounded the corner of the store and walked down the side alley until he found all four members of his brood waiting around his car. 

“So, job done? Do we have to call sanitation or…” Charlie asked.

“Do none of you pay attention to the comms? The only reason I leave them open is so that all of you might learn something and finally graduate from grunt-status,” Miguel said, shaking his head. “But what else could I expect of a bunch of puppies.” He smiled and looked to Missy and Lilly, who both pouted and stage-insulted whispers about Miguel’s’ suit. “Job’s done. Hopefully we won’t be back here. Now get in the car. We have another appointment. A minotaur in Taunton who’s begun protesting the department regulations regarding horn length. It might get messy, and I want to return in time for lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, all filing into the car with Miles complaining that he had the longest legs and should be in the front, not cramped in the back with the girls. Miguel just watched them for a moment and took a deep breath. As little blood as possible. Pleasant, polite, humble. His work was not over yet.


End file.
